


You Are Not Icarus

by everheartings



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Wings, M/M, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-20
Updated: 2013-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-05 08:07:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1091582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everheartings/pseuds/everheartings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire is twelve when his back begins to prickle. But he was never meant to fly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Are Not Icarus

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tears_of_nienna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tears_of_nienna/gifts).



> I didn't actually set out to write a wingfic (or whatever the fandom calls them)... I was going to write something completely different, but then I re-read one of my favorite childhood books, "Growing Wings" and I kinda couldn't stop myself from doing an AU thing of it.
> 
> Also this kinda grew way longer than intended. Oops.
> 
> But I hope you like it and merry Christmas!

Grantaire is twelve when his back begins to prickle. No matter how much he scratches his shoulder blades, it won’t go away. He tries to force it away though, he really does. He itches and itches until it looks like cat scratches down his back. He presses against the backs of his chair when no one is looking, wool and wood rough against his back. And still, the itch doesn’t go away, only lessens, just barely. It’s maddening. But he doesn’t think anything of the prickling, not until his mother catches him scratching.

He’s curled up on the faded, moth eaten couch. A battered copy of _The Iliad_ rests in his lap and his right hand scratches at his shoulders from beneath his shirt. Grantaire doesn’t notice when his mother shuffles into the room—for nearly as long as Grantaire can remember, she’s been like this, half-absent. Drifting. Not fully there. Her eyes always seem to focus just beyond him; she never seems to take things in completely. It’s as if she’s a ghost. Grantaire can just barely grasp at a memory of her when her eyes were clear and her smile wide and her shoulders curved forward with an unseen weight.

He doesn’t look up from his book, flipping to the next page without a word. He rolls his shoulder and twists his fingers beneath his shirt—his arm is jerked up and away by his mother’s hand, her fingers in a vice about his wrist, book sliding onto the floor with a thump. Grantaire looks up, muscles tensing despite himself. From the strength of his mother’s grip he expects anger to be written out on her face, but it is as placid as ever. Anger is his father’s domain

When their eyes lock her grip loosens. She lifts his hand to her lips. Presses a kiss to the back of his hand. Rests it in his lap. She walks away, leaving Grantaire alone once again. It’s a long time before his hands move from his lap and he leans down to pick up his book. He doesn’t scratch his shoulders around his mother again.

Over the course of a month, the itching grows worse. It’s constant now, so strong that Grantaire can barely focus. He thinks maybe he has some strange disease, but he doesn’t dare look at his back in the mirror; he’ll take ignorance over discovering the source to the constant prickling across his back.

Then, one morning, Grantaire wakes up and his shoulders are sore—but there’s no itch. He slides out of bed, shuffling bleary-eyed to the bathroom. He flicks on the light, turns to the mirror, and freezes. There, sprouting from his back, are wings. Small, frail, but most certainly wings.

His shouts bring his mother to the bathroom. When she sees the dark wings curving from Grantaire’s back, her face pales. She pulls him close and though he is too old to be embraced like this, he does not struggle. The unfamiliar clarity to her eyes is enough to make him pause and listen, even if just for the moment.

“Don’t tell anyone about this, R,” she whispers, “Especially your father.” Grantaire nods; she brushes back the curls on his forehead and presses a kiss against his skin. “ _Good._ ”

She releases him. Grantaire crinkles his nose and scrubs off her kiss from his forehead as she drifts away. Still, he doesn’t miss how her hand dips down to brush against the covered skin of her shoulder when she tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

 

It doesn’t take long for Grantaire to learn how to hide his wings. Within the week he has a new wardrobe, piles of scavenged and shoplifted sweaters that run a few sizes too big. He pulls his wings close to his back during school, ignoring the pain because he knows if he slips up _something_ bad will happen. He cuts gym. Grantaire spends his days constantly anxious, constantly vigilant, never getting too close to others for fear that they’ll discover his secret.

But after nearly half a year, his wings have grown too large to hide effectively. Teachers are beginning to ask questions. Grantaire has always been a secretive child, but never so withdrawn. They begin to ask him if the has troubles at home—he holds back a cynical laugh, a sound no twelve year old should be able to make, instead smiling for them and hurrying away.

So one day he wakes up and doesn’t get ready for school. He stays in his pajamas and sits on the couch with his copy of _Don Quixote._ His mother walks by in her nightgown and a cold cup of tea. She says nothing. Grantaire doesn’t go back to school.

 

He’s fifteen when he tries to fly. His father is away at work, his mother is sleeping in the living room, and there’s a forest in their backyard. It’s as good a time as any. Grantaire has no illusions—he’s read enough books to know that the size of his wings are far from ideal for lifting a human into flight. But still, he might as well try.

He sheds his sweater and shakes out his wings. He flaps them to work out the cramps; the way the leaves around him shiver with the false wind makes Grantaire smile. Maybe they’ll be enough. He climbs one of the trees, settling for a branch not _too_ far off the ground, but not too close either. Just the proper height for gliding. He settles himself on the branch, using his wings to balance himself. He looks at the ground, swallows, and begins to flap. Just as Grantaire is about to push off the branch, he here’s the slam of the back door.

His father is standing in the middle of the backyard, mouth twisted into an angry frown. Grantaire stumbles as he pushes off, fear making him clumsy. He flaps once, twice, then lands at his father’s feet in a tangled mess of limbs.

Later that day he comes back from the ER with a cast on his left arm. There are no more dreams of flying.

The night the cast comes off, his father offers him a bottle of whiskey. Grantaire’s eyes dart over to his mother; she is curled on the couch, eyes distant and hands limp in her lap. She won’t object. So he takes it with a small smile, fingers hesitant as they wrap around the bottle’s neck.

He sits at the kitchen table with his father, spine straightened and hands white knuckled. Everything is slow and thick in the summer’s afternoon heat, all except for the beat of Grantaire’s heart. Still, his father only gestures for Grantaire to pour them drinks—and Grantaire’s hands only shake a little, the lip of the bottle clinking against the top of the glass just once.

With every glass Grantaire downs, everything slows down a little bit more, becomes that much more muffled. He forgets that he doesn’t like to talk around his father, or maybe he just doesn’t care anymore, because he finds words spilling from his lips without hesitation. Another glass. Things grow slower. Grantaire finds himself laughing, even as his father sits stone faced across from him. _Has he been drinking? Has he refilled his glass?_ Grantaire laughs again. Another glass. Slower. It’s dark now. Grantaire rests his cheek against the table top. His wings press against the fabric of his sweater. It’s constraining and he says so. _Except wasn’t this supposed to be a secret?_ He hears his father’s chair squeak as it’s pushed back against the linoleum floor.

“Get up.” His voice is flat. Grantaire’s eyes flick up, sees the scowl spread across his father’s face, and for some reason it makes his own lips curl up in a smile. “ _Get up._ ” Grantaire’s chair is kicked out from beneath him and he stumbles. His wings strain against his sweater as he tries to catch himself. There’s a hissing noise, and then his father’s hand wraps around Grantaire’s arm, tight enough to hurt. He jerks Grantaire forward, and then they’re passing by the couch— _empty now, how long has it been empty?_ —and moving down the hall. Moving towards the door at the end of the hall.

Grantaire remembers when he was small and that door was tall, and wide, and imposing. More often than not he’d be crying on the floor in the beginning of the hallway, the fear of the door rendering him immobile. His mother would come and whisk him away to bed, teasing out a smile from between the tears with her soft words and quiet laughter. She was more concrete then, Grantaire thinks.

The door at the end of the hall is starting to feel much too large again.

Only when the door is looming in front of him does Grantaire notice the slumped figure of his mother resting against the door. As they approach, she stirs from whatever half slumber she drifted into. Her head tips up. She meets her husband’s eyes. Her breath catches in her throat. In one clumsy movement—more ragdoll than human—she throws herself at them, her arms wrapping around her husband’s legs.

“Please, please, don’t do this, it won’t happen again, please, _please_ ,” she sobs, body shaking and eyes wide. Grantaire can’t help but notice the clarity to them—like when he was twelve and she pulled him close and told him, _don’t tell anyone_. Grantaire’s father on shakes her off, kicking her away. The whole thing makes Grantaire cold— _what’s going on?_

But before he can even try to open his mouth and slur out the words, he’s being shoved through the open door. He hears it lock behind him, hears the faint sounds of pounding of fists and a desperate, quavering repetition of “ _R, R, R_.” And then Grantaire is alone with his father; even drunk, he knows that being anywhere alone with his father is a very, very _bad_ place to be.

There’s a table, and some rope, and some knives. Grantaire’s mind casts itself back to the glazed look to his mother’s eyes and the way she brushes her shoulders with her fingers, lips turned down in almost-frown. Terror strikes him to the bone, so deep he can only shiver when his father presses a hand against his wings through his sweater.

In the morning, Grantaire doesn’t have wings, or the taste for whiskey.

 

He only stays for his mother.

They curl up together, when Grantaire’s father is away, the pair of them twin hollowed out shells. She strokes is hair and he presses his face into the curve of her neck and neither of them cry. They don’t have the space for it.

Sometimes, on good days, his mother whispers stories to him. Stories of her as a girl, stories of a time before cut wings and unfocused eyes. She whispers of a time spent with her hair tumbling down her back, wings pressed to her skin, and white feathers drifting to the floor at night. She never speaks of how she met Grantaire’s father, or of ropes and knives and whiskey. Grantaire doesn’t ask.

And then his mother drifts away—she doesn’t die, that isn’t _death_ , the way she folds in on herself and lets her glass eyes slip shut—and there’s nothing keeping him in that house any longer. His father doesn’t even look at him except on the nights when he comes home drunk, and only then to pick at old wounds— _has it really been two years now_ —and it doesn’t hurt much, not anymore. Everything has numbed out; nothing can compare really, to the pain of having wings ripped from his back.

So there’s nothing there to keep him from going, so Grantaire goes. Still, he slips away in the night; he can never be too careful.

He lives on the streets, never staying in a place for too long—he wants to remain untraceable. Grantaire may have escaped his father once, but that doesn’t mean that he’s safe. He learns how to throw a punch and how to smash a kneecap with just his foot, and then learns it all again when he’s drunk. He picks up a switchblade in a pawn shop; he doesn’t look at it for too long, bringing it out in a flash and tucking it in his pockets just as quickly. He drinks, but never whiskey. And he doesn’t touch his shoulders.

 

He’s working at a book store, shelving books and working the cash register when he sees the flier pinned to the cork board. _Flying lessons. Wings required. Call to schedule a meeting to discuss eligibility._ Grantaire stares for a moment, rooted to the spot. He can’t believe it; it must be some sort of sick joke. It doesn’t take long for that spell to break and for his lips to twist in a snarl. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he says, ripping the flier off the board. He intends to throw it into the trash, but it finds its way into his pocket instead.

It is in the same manner that Grantaire finds himself at the café, waiting to talk to the so-called “leader” of these lessons: he did not have the intention of calling and making a meeting, but he finds that he does. The fact that he had been plastered when he made the call probably had something to do with it—no matter how steady he sounded his decision making skills were far from perfect when he was drunk. So here he is, sitting across from a pretty dark haired, dark skinned woman who’s reaching out to shake his hand.

“I’m Musichetta,” she says, smoothing down her skirt as she sits. She looks at the man across from her and smiles. “And you must be Grantaire?” He nods in affirmation, unable to hold her gaze for long. Musichetta takes it all in stride.

“So,” she says, “You’re interested in learning how to fly?” Grantaire snorts, rolling his eyes.

“No, I’m not,” he snaps, pushing away memories of black wings and white casts and crushed dreams. Musichetta doesn’t look fazed by his hostility.

“What about wings?” she asks. Grantaire stiffens. There’s laughter in her voice, as if this could all be one big joke if he wanted it to be. But her eyes are serious. Musichetta smiles, looking dangerous. “Do you have a pair of those?”

“No.” Grantaire swallows and looks away.  Musichetta sighs and leans forward in her chair, her hand sliding out; almost close enough to touch Grantaire’s hand.

“Why exactly did you call our number, Grantaire?” she asks, voice soft. Grantaire shudders, once, then focuses in on the wall behind Musichetta’s head.

“I… I used to want to fly. Once. A while ago,” he halts, gritting his teeth, “I failed. My arm was broken. And then…” His voice trails off. He breathes in deeply, finally meeting Musichetta’s gaze, “Then someone made sure that I couldn’t fly at all. So. That’s it.” Musichetta presses her lips together, glances over her shoulder, and leans in to whisper into Grantaire’s ear.

 “You used to have wings, didn’t you?” Grantaire starts, and then slowly brings himself to nod. She continues, “Don’t worry. I did too.” And with those words, it feels like a weight has dropped into Grantaire’s stomach.

Musichetta leans back, brushing invisible lint off her blouse. Grantaire doesn’t move at all. A silence stretches between them. It twists into Grantaire’s stomach, prodding at his feet; it tells him to get up and walk away. To run away, to run so far away this woman won’t be able to find him, and all this can be forgotten. Just when he begins to stand up from his seat, Musichetta reaches out and touches his hand. Grantaire freezes.

She asks, “How about we continue this talk somewhere less… crowded?” and Grantaire mechanically nods. Musichetta smiles and claps her hands together. “ _Perfect_!”

Grantaire finds himself ushered into the passenger side of a van. “Don’t worry,” Musichetta says as she starts the car, “I promise I’m not a serial killer.” The van lurches forward and Grantaire scrambles to put on his seatbelt and hold on for dear life. Musichetta just laughs.

 

They arrive at a house in the mountains after an hour drive along a nearly nonexistent road. It’s really _two_ houses, connected together by a wooden tunnel with a roof of what seems to be frosted glass. There’s no sign of life, except a slowly rotting compost pile and the tire tracks worn into the dirt; the windows are shut and no one is outside. The only sound is the chirping of birds and the rustling of the trees.

Musichetta puts the van into park and hops out; she motions for Grantaire to follow her. He slides out of the car and follows her up the gravel walkway to the front door of the house. She knocks twice. The door is pulled open just a crack—a second later it’s slammed shut.

“Come on, Gavroche, not today!” she shouts, only to be met by giggling. She sighs. “I have a new guy. Open the door!” She hits it with her fist. She’s about to hit it again when the door swings open.

“Sorry, Chetta,” a tall man with glasses says. If the man notices Grantaire he doesn’t say anything. It’s for the best because Grantaire is too caught up in staring at the dark brown wings that curve from the man’s shoulder blades.

Musichetta tugs Grantaire inside, the door slamming shut behind her. Once the door has been locked—a cumbersome affair that requires the locking of three deadbolts with separate keys, putting across two chains and one bar lock—she turns to Grantaire.

“This,” she gestures to the winged man, who’s currently cleaning his glasses, “Is Combeferre.” Grantaire stutters, almost unable to believe his eyes.

“He—he has—there’s— _wings_ , he has _wings_ ,” he says at last. There’s laughter from the top of the stairway. Grantaire looks up to see a dark haired girl leaning on the bannister. Her wings shake as she laughs. Musichetta just shrugs.

“Some of us have wings, and some of us don’t,” she says. Grantaire nods, eyes flicking from Combeferre’s dark wings to the girl’s light colored ones. “But we live here together, so we can stay safe.” Musichetta turns to Grantaire.

“And, if you want, you can live here too.” She looks at Grantaire, holding his gaze; he swallows and nods—he knows exactly how dangerous the outside world can be.

Musichetta smiles and claps her hands together. “Now, let’s meet everyone shall we?”

There’s an avalanche of introductions: names, who has wings and who doesn’t, who’s related to whom and who’s dating who, on and on and on. “Enjolras isn’t here—you can meet him tomorrow,” says a balding man with pale, sandy colored wings, who may have been a doctor or dating a doctor or _had_ been dating a doctor at some point in his life, but also seemed to be dating Musichetta. Grantaire can only remember that his name is related to eagles, which would have been funny if he hadn’t been so overwhelmed.

By the end of it Grantaire’s head is spinning and he needs a drink. He’s directed to a bedroom instead, one up the stairs and at the far end of the hall. One both sides of the hallway is a door, and Grantaire can’t remember exactly _which_ bedroom Musichetta told him was his.

“Fuck it,” he mumbles to himself, pushing open the left door and stepping inside—he barely makes two steps before he freezes.

There’s a tall boy standing at the foot of his bed, struggling to pull a sweater over his head. Grantaire can count the boy’s ribs, can see flashes of collar bone—but then the sweater is pulled off and Grantaire can’t hold back a muffled hiss. The boy turns, eyes wide, his long hair making him less of a bird and more of a lion. He sees Grantaire; his hands move up to clutch at his shoulders.

“ _Get out_ ,” the boy snarls. Grantaire complies, stumbling back into the dark hallway and slamming the door shut.

Lying in his own bed— _right door, right door, right door_ —Grantaire can’t get the image of the twisted stretch of his mangled wings growing from the boy’s back.

 

When Grantaire heads to the kitchen for breakfast, the boy is already there, sitting at the table. He’s wearing another sweater and his hair is in a single braid down his back. He doesn’t look up when Grantaire walks in, nor when Grantaire pours himself cereal. Grantaire feels awkward, like he should apologize for last night.

“Um, hey,” he begins, “Look I’m sorry about last night, I didn’t—”

“I put a sign on my door. Just in case it wasn’t clear,” the boy says. When he finally looks up, his lips are pressed together and there’s anger in his eyes. “ _Don’t_ let it happen again.” Grantaire nods. Before anything else can be said, Combeferre and Courfeyrac come down the stairs, discussing the mechanics of flight. Enjolras smiles at their approach, anger fading.

Grantaire slips away, feeling out of place. He’s walking pass the living room when a voice breaks into his thoughts.

“I see you met Enjolras.”

Grantaire starts. It’s the dark haired girl again—Éponine. She’s sitting on the couch with a cold bowl of spaghetti and her wings half folded.

“He’s an abrasive little shit, isn’t he?” she says, tugging at her hair, “Doesn’t say too much, except when he’s angry. _Then_ he’ll let you know. What did you do to piss him off?”

“I didn’t do _anything_ ,” Grantaire snaps. Éponine laughs. Grantaire huffs and walks away, heading to what Musichetta said was the library.

And what a library it is. There are hundreds of neatly shelved books; the thought of reading them all makes Grantaire’s hands tingle and his head spin. There’s a handful strewn about the floor, all of them about French history or political theories. Grantaire picks one up, shrugging and tucking it under his arm.

He slips past the kitchen, where a freckled faced boy— _Marius,_ _that’s_ Marius—looks like he’s lost in the deep end of the pool as Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Enjolras debate politics. Grantaire shakes his head— _why waste your time debating when you’ll never be out in the world to see the changes_ —and hurries up the stairs. He barricades himself in his room and pulls out the lone bottle of wine he’d managed to sneak from the kitchen the day prior. He props the book up on his knees and begins to read.

Shouts from below break Grantaire’s concentration; he slips his finger into the book, marking his page—just over half way—and cracks open his door.

“Where is it? I _swear_ I left it here yesterday!” There’s the sound of books being frantically pushed aside, each _thump_ making Grantaire wince. He heads down, book in hand. He pokes his head around the corner and is met by the sight of Enjolras ripping the library apart looking for _something_.

“Where is that _book_?” Grantaire looks down at the book in his hand. He swallows.

“Um… Is this your book?” Grantaire holds out the book. Enjolras looks up, eyes fixing on the book. He stands and stalks over, snatching it from Grantaire’s grip.

“Where did you find this?” he snaps. And suddenly Grantaire is aware how close Enjolras is, and how his own breath probably smells like wine. He speaks anyway.

“I was reading it.” Enjolras narrows his eyes, glancing from the book to Grantaire. He mashes his lips together and tightens his grip on the book.

“Next time,” he says “ask first.” He shoves past Grantaire, arms just barely brushing. As he stands there, Grantaire can’t help but think how Enjolras said _next time_ and wonders why that makes him smile.

 

Grantaire doesn’t see Enjolras for the rest of the day. The blonde boy finally withdraws from the library to join everyone for dinner, an affair that Grantaire finds loud and exhausting. The table is huge, there are plates everywhere, and every so often someone will bump him with a stray wing—he winces, not out of pain, and holds his hand steady so it doesn’t reach up to brush his shoulder. Now he knows how his mother must have felt, living with someone who had wings when her own were taken. It wasn’t a pleasant feeling. It doesn’t take long for Grantaire to pour himself a glass of wine.

Marius is going on about some human girl he’d met just before he came to the house. “She was so beautiful. I have to go out and find her, I just _have_ to.” Conversation halts then. Grantaire had been there for barely a day and already he knew that leaving, especially when you had wings, was a tense topic of discussion. Musichetta sets down her fork and takes a deep breath.

“Marius,” she says gently, “You know you can’t leave. What if someone finds out about your wings? What if _she_ finds out about your wings?” Marius tries to speak, but Musichetta cuts him off before he can say anything. “There’s too much to lose, for you and for us. You could lose your wings and we could be discovered.” Her voice hardens and she picks up her fork again, “It’s too dangerous, so put it out of your mind.” There’s an awkward silence filled only by the clinking of plates. Marius is blushing, his hands wringing his napkin tighter and tighter in his lap. Just when Grantaire thinks it’s over, it isn’t.

“I think we should be able to go outside,” Enjolras says, “All of us.” He levels his gaze at Musichetta, mouth set in a hard line. Musichetta sighs.

“Enjolras we’ve been over this.” She isn’t looking at Enjolras as she speaks, but at some point behind him. “It’s too dangerous. I’d like for everyone to be able to go outside just as much as you do, but people aren’t ready for us. The fact that we need this space proves it.”

“But how are we supposed to change anything if we just hide all the time?” Enjolras snaps. “That’s not doing anything at all! We have to help people change, to realize they _need_ to change.” He presses his palms flat on the table, his whole body tense. “They can’t change if they don’t know we even _exist_.”

Grantaire can’t help but laugh. Enjolras’ head whips around to face him, his face turning to a snarl.

“ _What?”_

“Just, you’re so _stupid_ ,” Grantaire says. He finishes the last of his wine before continuing. “It doesn’t matter if they know we exist or not. We’re different—we could be _mutants_ or _aliens_ for all they know. They’d annihilate us as a threat to everyone’s safety before we even got a chance to make them accept us.” He shrugs. “It’s safer here, where no one can see us. Better to live hidden than not at all.”

“We’d just have to fight to make them accept us,” Enjolras replies.

“And how many of us would have our wings cut off? Or be killed?” Grantaire snaps, “The outside world doesn’t have a stellar track record to keeping winged people safe.” Enjolras chair squeals as he shoves it back. His eyes are blazing with anger, his whole body as taught as a wire, but when he speaks it’s low and quiet.

“I’d die so that we could live outside. So we could be free to do as we please. Anything is better than this.” He stares Grantaire down, only breaking his gaze when he heads out of the room. The front door shuts with a slam. Dinner is quiet after that.

 

Around one am there’s a knock on Grantaire’s door. He rolls out of bed and pulls the door open.

“What?” he asks, blinking sleepily at the figure in front of his door. He straightens when he sees who it is; Enjolras stands, fully dressed, in Grantaire’s doorway. He’s holding a flashlight.

“Want to go stargazing?” he asks. Grantaire nods before his confusion gets the best of him—it’s one in the morning, Enjolras is asking him to stargaze, Enjolras who Grantaire thought would be the last person to invite him to do anything, but there’s no way in hell Grantaire is going to turn down this chance. If he says no now, he doubts Enjolras will ask anything of him again.

He pulls on a sweater and a pair of jeans, and follows Enjolras out of the house. Enjolras leads him through the forest surrounding the house, down a pathway that is more of a deer path than an actual trail. The crunch of leaves beneath their feet is the only sound. Eventually they arrive at a small clearing with two rocks in the middle, both just big enough to sit on.

Enjolras settles himself on the larger of the two. He looks at Grantaire, who’s still hovering at the edge of the clearing.

“You coming or not?” he asks. Grantaire jerks forward. He seats himself on the other rock; his back to Enjolras and he looks at the ground at his feet. Enjolras doesn’t speak for a while, eyes turned up to the sky.

“I’m tired of being a caged bird,” Enjolras whispers, breaking the silence. “It’s as if I left one cage and flew into another one. A better one, but still a cage.” He rests his forehead on his knees, “ _I hate it_.”

Grantaire drums his finger on the cold stone. He speaks carefully, not wanting to make Enjolras angry again—and not only because he wouldn’t be able to find his way back. “Well, sometimes cages are meant to protect not to confine.” He scoots around to face Enjolras and is met by Enjolras’ intense stare. He swallows, waiting for a response.

“When you’ve been here long enough, it feels less like protection and more like punishment. A jail…” Enjolras’ voice trails off and he returns to looking at the stars. After a moment, he hops off the rock and dusts off his pants.

“We should be getting back.” Grantaire nods. On the walk back, Grantaire keeps preparing himself to ask Enjolras a question, but he never does. It’s only when they’re back in house, standing between their two doors, does Grantaire work up the courage to speak.

“Why did you take me out there? I thought you disliked me, especially after tonight.” Grantaire regrets asking when Enjolras begins to close the door to his bedroom.

The quiet whisper of “I can see the good in you,” curls out to Grantaire’s ears. The door clicks shut and Grantaire is left standing in the hallway.

 

They fight often, Enjolras and Grantaire. They fight so often that, all things said and done, they should absolutely hate each other. They don’t. They aren’t enemies, but Grantaire isn’t sure if he’d call himself Enjolras’ friend—he doesn’t have the easy way with him that Combeferre or Courfeyrac have. Grantaire’s not sure what they are.

There’s awkward staring and accidental touches. Long stretches of silence in between burst of conversation. And arguments on everything from politics to if people with wings could ever fly—but never the question of if they should show themselves to the outside world, or if they should remain hidden. That is the one topic that has remained untouched since that first night.

The nighttime visits to the rock clearing are an unspoken constant. Once or twice a week, Enjolras will knock on Grantaire’s door and lead him into the forest. They talk in quiet whispers and then return, not speaking of what transpired the next day—as if it never happened. But there are traces of a change in the softening of Enjolras’ eyes and the beginnings of a smile when Grantaire speaks.

Grantaire begins to wait up every night for those knocks; he pretends he isn’t disappointed when the hours pass and there is only silence. As the months pass and the weather grows colder, he worries that it’ll be the end to the night time excursions. After the first snow, Grantaire spends a week fretting that it’ll be the end to it all. When there’s finally a knock, Grantaire yanks open the door open and is met by Enjolras in a knit cap and an extra sweater, with blankets draped over his arms.

That night they huddle on the rocks with blankets wrapped around their shoulders. When Grantaire joins Enjolras on his rock, pressing close for warmth, there are no complaints. But the next morning they don’t speak of it and argue over breakfast, and it’s almost as if it hadn’t happened at all.

 

Somewhere between the night-time ventures and the days of dancing around each other, Grantaire realizes he might be a little bit in love with Enjolras. In love with the stupidly ugly sweaters he wears, and the way he cuts Grantaire off when he’s angry, and the way he smiles when Grantaire quotes classic Greek literature. He realizes he might be a little bit in love with Enjolras and realizes it is an extremely _stupid_ feeling to have. He’s drunk more often than not, doesn’t know when to keep his mouth shut, and has absolutely _no_ intention of ever leaving this house. There’s no way in hell Enjolras will be able to see him beyond anything as a friend, if that—the obstacles are too great. So Grantaire decides to hide it, this tiny little burst of maybe-love.

He does his best to smother it. He picks fights and drinks far too much. The two of them spends more time screaming at each other than actually having conversation—it’s as if they’ve gone back to those first few weeks. It hurts when Enjolras walks by with Courfeyrac and doesn’t acknowledge that Grantaire is just a few feet away. It hurts and Grantaire knew it would hurt, but not quite this _much_. And despite all of his work, Grantaire feels this feeling growing in his chest—he curses himself for being so cliché as to fall into the saying “absence makes the heart grow fonder.” He thought he was stronger than that.

But he finds he isn’t, because when Grantaire hears a knock on his door for the first time in nearly a month, his heart leaps into his throat. He pulls open the door and Enjolras is standing there, sweater, flashlight, blankets, and all. He nods and heads down the stairs and out the front door. Grantaire does not hesitate to join.

This time Enjolras stops just before they reach the clearing. He reaches out to stop Grantaire with a light touch of his arm, then drops his hand to his side. Grantaire doesn’t miss the way Enjolras’ fingers curl together, as if trying press the touch into his skin. He glances over at Enjolras, waiting for him to speak.

“I have something to show you.” He has the flat cold voice he uses when he argues with Musichetta. He doesn’t say anything else, just strides off into the clearing. Grantaire follows, expecting Enjolras to be perched on his rock of choice. Instead he finds him struggling out his sweater.

“What the hell are you doing?” Grantaire shouts, reaching out and grabbing Enjolras’ bare arm. The sweater is resting on the ground. There’s no snow, it all melted during a sudden rise in heat during November, but it’s still far too cold to be out _shirtless—_ oh god, Enjolras is _shirtless,_ Grantaire can’t do this, he’s going to end up reaching his hands out touching Enjolras’ skin. Instead he says, “You’re going to freeze!”

“It’s fine,” Enjolras replies, jerking his arm from Grantaire’s grip, “I’ll be fine.”

He hunches over on the rock, the cold night air creating goose bumps on his skin. He winces as his wings unbend; he rolls his shoulders and grits his teeth and the crooked line of his wings reveal themselves. Grantaire stands off to the side, hands tucked into his pocket.

“My parents,” Enjolras begins, “kept my wings bound. From them moment I started growing them to the moment I escaped.” His hands move up to curl around his shoulder blades. “And when they wouldn’t stop growing, my parents locked me up so no one would see.” Enjolras voice goes flat, “I think they thought I was the devil. Or something. I didn’t really get the chance to ask.” His mouth twists.

“That time…the first day… You were the first person to have seen my wings,” he whispers, “Besides Joly. Not even Musichetta has seen them, and she likes to document the wing growth of everyone staying here.” Enjolras laughs. “Not that mine are going to grow all that much.” He pulls his knees up to his chest and wraps his arms around them. “But, I want you to see them, not by accident, but when I choose to show you,” his eyes flick up to meet Grantaire’s and then away. “You can touch them,” he whispers, “If you’d like.”

Grantaire steps forward, running his fingers over the top of Enjolras’ wing. It’s twisted and bent at odd angles. The feathers are patchy. Unable to help himself, Grantaire leans in, pressing a kiss in between the two wings; Enjolras stiffens, but when Grantaire goes to apologize he cuts him off.

“It’s okay. That’s—that’s fine…” His voice shakes.

So Grantaire takes his chance and continues; a soft sigh passes from Enjolras’ lips as Grantaire presses a kiss to the base of neck, then another pressed behind his ear, the curve of his shoulder. But Grantaire does not dare to take Enjolras’ face in his hands and press a kiss to his lips. Instead he pulls back and returns to running his fingers up and down the line of muscle and bones. Grantaire feels like he should speak, break the silence—offer up something of his own.

“My dad cut my wings off,” Grantaire whispers, “And my mother’s too. I think.” He runs his hand over a soft patch of golden down, right where the wing meets the skin. “I guess we had shitty parents.” Enjolras snorts.

“That’s the understatement of the century.” He unfolds himself, and Grantaire pulls back his hand. After his sweater is in place, he turns back to Grantaire. “Though, maybe the future will be better.” When Enjolras says it Grantaire thinks he just might be able to believe it.

They walk back to the house. Neither of them reaches for each other’s hand, though it would have been easy. Neither of them mentions the feeling of lips against skin.

 

A week passes and there is not talk of what happened in the clearing that night. The only sign it happened at all is the slight hesitation and sharp intake of breath when they accidently bump limbs. It is ignored. Grantaire doesn’t know where he stands with Enjolras anymore, but he’s beginning to think they crossed over the line of “just friends” a long time ago.

It all goes to hell though, one night at dinner, a week before Christmas. Enjolras and Musichetta are at it again—Musichetta just seems tired, tired of fighting over this, tired of telling Enjolras no. She just wants everyone to be safe, and telling the people she loves _no_ time and time again is taking its toll. Enjolras can see it, and uses it.

“I bet others want to go outside,” he says, leaning forward. “I bet they’d go outside with me.” Combeferre and Courfeyrac shout their agreement; Marius nods eagerly. Éponine shrugs and adjust her wings. Others remain quiet, gazing at their hands or at their plates. Enjolras’ eyes seek out Grantaire’s.

“What about you, Grantaire?” Enjolras asks, softly. There’s an unfamiliar look to his eyes, a mix of hope and fear and Grantaire doesn’t know how to handle this.

He wants to say, _Yes, just tell me where and I’ll go_ , but he thinks of whiskey, knives, and twin scars on his back. Fear closes his throat and instead, “I’m… not sure,” falls from his lips. He curses himself internally, opens his mouth to correct—it isn’t his fault, they haven’t talked about any of this, what they mean and what they want for the future—but Enjolras has already moved on.

Grantaire doesn’t expect a knock on the door, not tonight. When it _does_ arrive, it is two hours late and the hallway is empty when Grantaire opens the door. He nearly goes back to bed— _is this some sort of punishment game_ —when he sees light faintly shining from down the stairs. He pads down the stairs and slips into the library.

Enjolras is wearing what must be the ugliest Christmas sweater known to man—red and green, with bells sewn on the collar, embroidered poinsettias on the hem, and a print that makes Grantaire’s eyes water. He’s standing by the window, the glass frosted over with snow, a cup of tea in his hand. There’s that far-away look in his eyes—he’s thinking of the future again. His wings are out, stretching from a crudely cut hole in the back. Enjolras _never_ lets his wings out.

Grantaire walks up, hands dangling empty at his sides, and stands beside Enjolras. He thinks back to the dinner conversation and his throat grows thick. He speaks anyways. “So,” he says, and Enjolras looks over, eyes suddenly focused, “Do you really think that they’ll ever accept us out there?” Enjolras gazes back out the window; he takes a sip of tea before he replies.

“Yes,” he says, “It’s only a matter of time before others like us make themselves known. They just need someone to lead the way, that’s all.”

Grantaire doesn’t say anything to that. He doesn’t feel like arguing, not now. That’s for the daylight. Now is for peace. They stand in silence; every so often Grantaire’s fingers reach out, but retract back into a fist, or Enjolras’ hand will pull away from his cup, only to move back again. But mostly there is silence and still.

Grantaire is the first to break; he sighs and turns away, going to head back to bed. His hand moves to slip into his pocket, only he finds Enjolras’ fingers gripping the sleeve. Grantaire freezes. Enjolras tugs once and that’s all it takes for Grantaire to turn back around.

Enjolras is looking at the ground. His wings slowly open and close in two twisted lines. His voice is a whisper when he speaks. “Would you go with me… if I left here?” He looks up, eyes meeting Grantaire’s—and though his body looks to make itself smaller, his eyes burn and his mouth is set. Grantaire swallows once—they’ve reached a tipping point and he knows it.

So he says, “I’d follow you anywhere,” and means it. He moves his hand to grasp Enjolras’ and Enjolras takes it. It is unexpected when Enjolras leans in, pressing a kiss to Grantaire’s lips. It is less so that Grantaire kisses back. When they break apart, Enjolras smiles, bright and wild. Suddenly, Grantaire thinks the outside world doesn’t seem so bad.


End file.
